


no tenderness

by mxmushroom



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: BSDM, Banter, Blowjobs, Bondage, Bratty Sub Elias Bouchard, But they'd NEVER admit it, Cis Elias Bouchard, Cis Peter Lukas, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dom Peter Lukas, Dominant, Edging, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, I just think he's neat?, Illegal Soft LonelyEyes, Late-Season 3, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Season 3 Canon, Soft Dom Peter Lukas, Sub Elias Bouchard, Sub Titles, Submissive, Swallowing, Teasing, The Eye, The Lonely - Freeform, Yearning, a little bit of, because we all know he was planning that shit, canon-typical complaining about the archivist, canon-typical peter lukas assholery, face fucking, handjobs, rope play, this is before Elias goes to prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29387541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxmushroom/pseuds/mxmushroom
Summary: "You’ll be late," Elias needles."Never fear, pet." Something about the taste of Peter’s thoughts is delicious; a chill runs down Elias’ spine and he shifts in his seat. So the game is up, then. All right.Peter Lukas is late for a business engagement.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60
Collections: Start Reading





	no tenderness

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "Hatef--k" by The Bravery, because of course it is.  
> probably will wind up with a series of fics that are just these two fucking and pretending they're not in love.  
> elias yearning? that's illegal, but i did it anyway.

“I do have an appointment.” 

When he hears it, all at once, Elias rolls his eyes. God, Peter. Putting on a show already? He frowns as he feels the frightened, baffled statement-giver slip away from him and to a comfortable, terrifying, unforgiving fog.  _ That one was mine _ . He doesn’t bother to place the thought in Peter’s head. Refuses to give him the satisfaction. He knows he has plenty of people caught somewhere in the Institute that Peter would’ve liked for himself. Small compromises must be made.

He’s just trying to get to you, he tells himself, and taps code into his keyboard. The spreadsheet in front of him rearranges its colour scheme pleasantly. Good. There’s no need for Peter to know he’s been waiting. 

Anticipation builds in Elias’ gut, a hot, fluttering pressure that he swallows back as Peter strolls with infuriating nonchalance down the Institute’s myriad long, dark halls. He’s a troubling man: he enters rooms silently, with a chill and the smell of salt and the perverse pleasure he takes in the unease he sparks in Elias’ underpaid clerical staff makes Elias smirk. He saves the spreadsheet; in a wisp of thick, choking fog, Peter asks an anonymous employee--Liam, Elias remembers--where he can find Elias’ office. 

This time, he does speak to Peter:  _ There’s really no need to be so dramatic.  _

Peter’s put-on, hollow cheerfulness is his only reply. 

_ You’ll be late _ , Elias needles. 

_ Never fear, pet.  _ Something about the taste of Peter’s thoughts is delicious; a chill runs down Elias’ spine and he shifts in his seat. So the game is up, then. All right. Another whisper:  _ You can wait.  _

He examines himself in the now-dark screen of his monitor, his reflection all hard lines, the sharp arch of Elias’ dark, heavy eyebrows, the glint of the gold he wears in his ears, the thin line of his mouth, the lines across his forehead and under his eyes inscrutable, betraying nothing. He toys with the idea of giving Peter a scare, but abandons it. It’s been too long. 

Eighteen months? A year? Before Prentiss, after he hired Jon. Perhaps it’s the long, cold stretches without the rough scrape of Peter’s hands over his skin that make the other man so irresistible, Elias muses, but he doesn’t have long to pursue that train of thought. There are, all at once, a series of heavy, hard knocks on the door. Three of them. Elias counts to five before he stands and strides slowly to open it. 

“It’s four seventeen,” he says, without looking at his watch. 

“Apologies, love.” Peter smiles, but the glint in his eyes is pure ice. “You hire the most fascinating people.” 

Elias scoffs. “I pride myself on the quality of my staff, Mr. Lukas.” 

“Come now.” Peter grabs his collar and pulls him, violently, closer, so that they stand over the threshold of Elias’ door. Their breath mingles; he could lean forward, scarcely move, and feel Peter’s mouth on his own. For a moment, he’s enraptured by the closeness. He always expected Peter’s touch to be as cold as the rest of him, but it’s hot, burning, even, as blood rushes to Elias’ face at the sheer proximity of those piercing blue-grey eyes. But he’s paralyzed, as he always is, as Peter growls, “Get your coat. We’re going out.” 

Elias’ heels hit the floor with a thud when Peter releases him, and he wordlessly turns to don the thick, long wool coat he wears against the grey London February. It’s wet and miserable outside. Before he thinks, he puts a hand to his hair and Peter laughs. 

“Don’t worry. Car’s outside.”

They don’t speak in the elevator. Peter doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t meet his eye. It’s a long, interminable ride, down, down, down to the bustling Chelsea street, all thronged with evening traffic. Thousands of people, thousands of small, meaningless lives passing by his doors. Elias sighs.  _ This really isn’t necessary _ , he thinks. 

“Nobody’s here, Elias.” Even at the end of a chastisement, his name is at home on Peter’s tongue. “You don’t need to show off.”

_ I really prefer our meetings to be private.  _

“I haven’t eaten all day.” It’s the only explanation Peter offers as the soft  _ ping _ signals the ground floor and the elevator doors slide open. Peter lets him stride out ahead of him, a small mercy, though there’s no one to see but the bored receptionist, scarcely pretending to work anymore. Her eyes slide to the bottom right corner of her computer screen; she’s waiting for five o’clock. Will she have to stay in this job forever? God, the thought is horrible; endless days of this desk with a chair that never gets more comfortable, forty or fifty years of eye-strain, of ushering hysterical members of the public downstairs into the cold, dim hallways of the archive… Elias settles the thought a little deeper into her mind, and as she watches her boss exit the building, a cold sweat runs down her back as she thinks,  _ God, he’s seen me slacking off.  _

When they emerge, Peter speaks again: “You really don’t pay her enough.” Elias shrugs. 

“She could be  _ much  _ worse off.” He lets Peter open the door of the black car that sits on the pavement in front of them. Despite the slush that’s built up in the gutters, all grey-brown filth, it’s almost impossibly clean. Dark, tinted glass separates them from the driver as he pulls away from the curb and into traffic. 

“This is all very public, Peter,” Elias starts to complain. “Not much to your taste.” The weight of a hand on his thigh stops him from continuing. 

“There’s really no need to be difficult.” Peter speaks coolly, pleasantly, as though Elias is an elderly woman in the park he’s troubling for directions or bus fare. “We haven’t done anything in ever so long.” 

Elias lets his narrow fingers tangle with Peter’s as the other man slides his hand, slowly but with definite persistence, up along the inseam of Elias’ charcoal trousers. He swallows. 

“You’re so thoughtful.” 

“I know you’ve been having a time of it,” Peter answers. Elias can feel Peter’s gaze on him, but he’s not willing to turn yet. Instead, he lets his eyes wander out the car window to rest on the grime of twenty-first century London: car parks, traffic lights, barking dogs and screaming babies, women in pencil skirts and men with briefcases emerging soullessly from tall, nondescript buildings in which they did nothing of meaning or interest. “Tell me, how  _ is  _ Mr. Sims?” 

“Adjusting.” 

“That’s not what I’ve heard.” 

When they pull up at the restaurant, the driver stops the car without saying a word. Elias doesn’t move until Peter’s stepped out into the rain and opened the door for him, offering him one hand. 

“I wasn’t under the impression you’d had much chance for idle workplace gossip,” Elias responds coolly as his feet hit the damp pavement. 

Peter chuckles. “One gets around. Shall we?” 

“By all means.” 

Elias knows it’s a regular haunt of Peter’s, and the way the hostess smiles at them and escorts them to a small, round black table at the back of the dim, cavernous room only serves to reinforce his impression of the Lukas’ influence here. Probably due, in no small part, he thinks, to their capacity to purchase the establishment’s most expensive wines without so much as a glance at the menu. Which Peter does, as soon as they sit. Elias smiles, knowing this is for his benefit; as much as he might pretend whenever he’s forced to make a public appearance, wine is very much not to Peter’s taste. 

Still, it’s not as private as he’d like. He surveys the room, not crowded, but buzzing with the soft conversation that hangs in the air like smoke at tasteful restaurants. “Well, I’m certainly flattered,” he begins, but then the waiter reappears with the wine and Peter has to put on a show of tasting it and gesturing his approval before they’re both poured generous glasses. Elias itches with anticipation watching the entire ritual. 

Peter raises his glass. “It’s a momentous occasion. A toast?”

“I’m debriefing you on my staff, Peter, not signing over the building.” But Elias complies, and their glasses clink off one another. It’s an oaky, rich red, dry on the finish, and Elias sighs with pleasure as he lets it run over his tongue, down his throat. 

“Thought you’d like it. I’ve heard wonderful things.” 

“I don’t see any reason we can’t get to the point. I’m very busy.” 

“I can tell.” Peter stares him down, and Elias becomes, all at once, very intensely conscious of the table between them. There’s a flash across his consciousness: Peter’s mouth on his throat, Peter’s thigh between his legs, pushing against him. He swallows. Stares back. 

“It’s become something of an inevitability that you’ll become rather more involved with the Institute sometime relatively soon,” Elias begins, placing his napkin over his lap. “I’d like to discuss some of the logistics, if you’d be so kind. Management. Budgets. That sort of thing.” 

“My pleasure,” Peter says with an almost-smile. He’s insufferable. Elias pushes a thought into his mind, which is surprisingly open, receptive, more than he’s ever found it before. Elias in his lap. Elias’ hands tracing lines down Peter’s chest. Peter in Elias’ mouth. He watches Peter’s face intently as a muscle twitches on the right side of his mouth. But his voice is steady when he speaks again. “You know I’m perfectly happy to lend a hand to an old acquaintance.” 

“I expect you’ll need to keep rather a close eye on the Archive staff,” Elias admits. As the waiter returns with two small plates bearing something assembled from crab and wild rice, Elias realizes they haven’t ordered, and revels inwardly at Peter’s little performance. He’s trying to impress me. It might be enough to amuse him if he didn’t have far more pressing matters to attend to. He tries to swallow back the desire threatening to fog his mind as he continues. “They’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“That must be very difficult.” 

He wants to needle Peter, to wipe that smug air of cool nonchalance off his face. Remember, he urges. Peter carrying him into bed. Pinning him down. He sees Peter shift, just so, in his seat. 

“Just keep them alive, if you can manage it.” 

Peter scoffs and drains his glass. “I may not have your managerial experience, Elias, but I assure you I do intend to keep your staff from getting brutally murdered.” 

“And we’re low on stationery. See to that, will you?” 

The waiter reappears as if from nowhere and Elias is tickled with the feeling that he knows exactly what the two grim men at this table are discussing, and it terrifies him. He smiles pointedly at the young, besuited man as he comes to clear the small plates and replace them with entrees, smelling of onion and duck and roasted asparagus. Though the waiter doesn’t ask, he says, voice dripping with false sincerity, “everything’s been spectacular. Thank you.” 

“Um--right, well--thanks, and um… enjoy?” It’s not much, but it’s a pleasurable head rush, the wave of unease that rushes out from the server and into Elias’ blood. 

“There’s no need to terrorize him,” Peter chides, and Elias cuts into his meat and takes a full bite before answering. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” The facade of the business meeting is slipping. Elias swallows. “You’ve been keeping quite the secret.” 

“Oh, we’ve been regulars here for some time. I’m surprised I haven’t dragged you out before.” 

“There are usually more interesting places that you’re dragging me to.” 

When he meets Peter’s eyes, his own are full of cheek, like a challenge. Come on, he goads. Try me. 

“Naughty boy.” Peter speaks just under his breath and his voice goes straight to Elias’ cock, which twitches to attention. He crosses his legs and takes another bite. 

“I’d like you to keep a particularly close eye on Jonathan, if you will.” 

“More of your dirty work?” 

“Oh, trust me,” Elias counters, “He’s a delight. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of fun with him yourself.” 

Peter shrugs. “Bit old hat. No friends, coworkers hate him, parents are dead… I do so wish you’d give me a challenge, Elias.” 

“Just get it done.” 

“Things will go much more smoothly for you if don’t try to tell me what to do, love.” Peter’s voice is still sickly with that false cheeriness that infuriates Elias and makes him ache. 

“Peter, this is important.”

“Perhaps you can convince me.” 

Elias’ appetite is swiftly fading, and the room feels all at once too hot, too close, and he’s desperate to leave. He pushes his plate away, drains his glass. “I have utmost confidence.” His voice betrays the tension he feels, and he curses himself.

Peter grins, and despite himself, Elias feels a shudder of pleasure at the thought that he’s amusing Peter, mingling with frustration that he finds himself so easily in the other man’s thrall. Despite himself, though, he leans into it, begins to let his guard down. 

“Oh, come now, love.” Elias toys with the stem of his wine glass, unwilling to meet Peter’s cajoling eyes. “Surely we have time for dessert.” 

Elias bites his lip, hard. He feels Peter reach for his hand from across the table and drag his thumb slowly across Elias’ palm. It’s only then that he realizes, with a jolt and a rush of heat between his legs, that they haven’t touched, not yet, and he’s humiliated by how it hits him, Peter’s skin on his. He lets out a slow controlled breath. 

“Unless you’d like to go?”

Elias pulls Peter’s fingers to his mouth, kisses them, lips parted. 

“Because that could be arranged.” 

The taunting is insufferable, and he’s never been able to resist it. He nods, almost, for once, speechless, and mutters, “Please. I can’t--”

Peter cuts him off. “Certainly. Come. I’ll call the car.” 

The wine’s gone to his head in a pleasant way, Elias finds, as he stands and takes a moment to ensure his feet are solidly on the ground. Walking from the table to the door, the exaggerated thanks of the hostess and the manager, Peter’s slipping bills into hands at the door and helping him into the backseat of a car is all a blur, punctuated by the pressure of Peter’s hand on his arm, his lower back, easing him forward. As he guides Elias into the car, he whispers, “Come home with me, pet,” and his hot breath on Elias’ neck is enticing. 

If Peter directs the driver, Elias doesn’t notice. It’s fully dark out, now, and he can only see flashes of Peter’s face in the glow of streetlamps and still-open shops they drive by. He’s caught in it, the set of Peter’s jaw, the furrowing of his eyebrows, the surprisingly soft curve of his bottom lip. Unable to resist, Elias moves closer, trying to ignore the awkwardness, the juvenile feeling of the scenario. Peter’s arm snakes around him, pulls him closer, until they’re face to face, and Elias exhales. 

“Someone’s impatient.” He can never keep his mouth shut, and regrets it almost instantly as Peter settles his large hand on Elias’ neck just under his jaw, tightening his grip and pulling his face upward so to move would surely be incredibly painful. Elias grins.

“And someone’s forgotten his place.” His voice gets low, serious in a delicious way, and then he pulls Elias towards him and their mouths meet. It’s rough, warm: Peter’s tongue parts his lips, finds its way into his mouth, and Elias moans involuntarily, hands moving to cup Peter’s cheeks. This is familiar, despite the feeling that always nags at him, that Peter is always at least partly somewhere else. A hand in his hair, mussing it, pulling at it, pushes the thought from his mind. 

“Mmm. That’s nice.”

“I know. You’re not difficult to read, Elias, no matter what you think.” 

Before he can object, Peter’s gripping his cock through his trousers, and he grinds his hips forward slightly, a high-pitched sound coming from the back of his throat. “Peter,” he whispers. 

“You look so pretty.” Elias feels himself stiffening as Peter touches him, and the compliment doesn’t help matters. He sighs. 

“Missed me,” he murmurs. The night is rushing by them. Elias almost doesn’t care where they’re going, though he knows they’ll have to move eventually, if only because, given the dimensions of the space, Peter won’t be able to effectively fuck him here. But the drive isn’t a short one. He knows Peter keeps a large flat in the city, usually empty, kept clean by staff who, though well-paid, typically vanished after a year or two or whenever they started poking too much into Lukas affairs. Nevertheless, the city bustles in the cold and the constant stopping and starting are a torment as Elias’ mind wanders to being thrown down on Peter’s bed, pinned against his wall or his floor, hands tied to his headboard. 

Peter whispers some reassurance about the driver’s discretion and Elias whispers “shut up,” latching his mouth to a sweet, warm spot just below Peter’s collar. His skin is dry and rough and tastes almost sweet, and Elias looks with satisfaction at the pink-purple mark blossoming when he pulls away. Peter is gentle now, hands wandering through Elias’ hair so it’s fallen out of its careful arrangement and down over his forehead. There’s a twinge of something other than arousal in his stomach, something more than the ever-growing need for Peter to fill him, a tug that’s almost like happiness, Elias thinks. How long has it been? He doesn’t want to think about it. But he does, and he absentmindedly reaches up to stroke Peter’s face, revelling in the intensity of his piercing blue eyes. 

For a moment, he thinks he sees something mimicking affection in them. 

By the time they pull up at the tall, anonymous brick building where Peter makes his primary London residence, Elias’ capacity for the banter he usually considers himself such a master of is fading, and quickly. Peter tips the driver, then opens the door. He lets himself be guided through the abandoned lobby (he isn’t  _ entirely  _ sure, but he thinks Peter might be the only person living in this building, and he’s certainly never seen any evidence to the contrary). A hand, firm and commandeering, presses into his lower back, slides down over the curve of his ass while they wait for the elevator. 

Elias exhales. “Stop that.” 

The hand traces an alarmingly deliberate line along the place where Elias’ crack would be exposed if they were naked, with a faint but insistent pressure. “Just another minute, Elias.” 

“Mmm.”

“You can wait, can’t you?”

“I’m not a patient man.” 

In the elevator--quicker than the one in the Institute but still painfully slow--Peter’s hands continue to wander, over Elias’ hips, up his stomach and over his chest, down his back between his shoulder blades. He nestles back into Peter and keens softly with satisfaction at the bulge of his erection against his ass.

There is only one flat on the top floor of the building. Peter carries him into it with an effortless sort of strength that still impresses Elias, even after years. He knows he’s a slim man, but the way Peter doesn’t even seem to breathe more heavily as he tosses him with no small force onto the bed makes him hot, panting. 

He reaches to pull Peter down with him, but is met with a shake of the head. “Stay still.” 

“Tease,” he mutters, as Peter slips his blazer off his shoulders. 

“That’s nice,” when Peter kisses each of his nipples after loosening his tie, letting his shirt fall open listlessly.

He doesn’t say anything when Peter slides down his trousers and briefs, traces Elias’ inner thighs with his tongue, hot and so very  _ there _ . His touch is light and Elias aches for it, wants more of it, wants Peter more present, more solid, more. Peter lets his mouth settle around the tip of Elias’ cock, and he moans. Peter’s light, almost hesitant tonguing of his tip is expert; he must know what he’s doing to Elias, as his mind fogs with pleasure and he stops being able to control the sounds coming from him. He wants to open his eyes, to see Peter’s face, but a fresh rush of white-hot pleasure overtakes him and he cries out. 

Peter pulls away. Elias curses. “You’re a cold man, Peter.” He’s not quite pouting. At least, he wants to tell himself he isn’t. 

Peter turns Elias over forcefully, and Elias doesn’t protest; he’s not opposed to being manhandled. Not if it’s Peter. He wishes, fleetingly, that he’d bruise everywhere Peter’s fingers brushed him, in each place he kissed his hot skin. To be left marked, claimed. He hears the rustle of fabric and a zipping noise, and then there’s the delicious, welcome weight of Peter above him. Elias’ cock twitches where it’s pressed into the bedsheets, and he sighs, sensitive enough that it makes him shiver. Peter chuckles. 

“Pretty,” he whispers. 

“You think so?” 

He feels Peter pull his arms back, his wrists together. “Don’t fish for compliments, Elias, it’s not becoming,” he scolds. The rope that Elias feels Peter pull to bind his wrists together is soft, silken. But the knots are unforgiving and Peter pulls the binding tight so that when Elias moves against them, it hurts, delightfully. “Much better. How’s that?” 

“That’s… good.” 

He lets Peter turn him over again, and looks up. His eyes are bright, shining with desire, his white skin flushed. Elias wants to move to run his hands over Peter’s broad chest, to pull him down so their bodies would press together, so Elias could grind against Peter’s thigh to ease the ache between his legs, but he can’t, so he says, “touch me,” and Peter does. 

It’s slow at first, in a cruel way. He leans in, bites at Elias’ lower lip, coaxing out a sigh. Elias ruts his hips up, murmurs, “please.” Peter laughs. 

“What do you want?” 

“Peter.” 

“Tell me,” he replies with a gravitas that makes Elias roll his eyes.

“Don’t mock me.” 

“Oh, but it’s so fun.” 

Peter positions himself between Elias’ open legs, lets their cocks settle into place against each other. The feeling, the hot bare skin, slick with desire, is tantalizing. It takes all Elias’ willpower to stay still when Peter cups them both in one strong, broad hand to stroke in a slow, regular rhythm. Elias lets his head fall to one side, eyes closed, lips parted. He feels sweat bead on his forehead as any thoughts are replaced by this, Peter, his touch, his cool, domineering manner, his closeness. “Fuck,” Elias curses. “Fuck, you feel--Peter--”

He wants to come. Wants nothing more than to release, to cover Peter’s chest with it and be made to clean it off. To watch Peter’s face as he makes him convulse in pleasure, utterly lose control. And he’s close, too, he can feel it, but Peter pulls away at the last moment, leaving Elias’ cock twitching, swollen. 

“Please,” he breathes. His voice is hoarse. Peter shakes his head. 

“But you look so good begging.” 

“I’d look--” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath when Peter lets one finger wander to his perineum. “I’d look better coming for you.” 

“You really should learn when to stop talking.” 

It’s tender, slow, the way Peter moves to position himself so he’s knelt over Elias’ face. He lets the tip of his cock sit at the small part in Elias’ lips, and he tastes the salt and tang of pre-cum leaking out of it. “Open,” Peter orders him, and he can only obey. 

One of the things he likes about Peter is the way he fucks, forcefully, regularly, slowly. As his mouth fills to the back of his throat and feels each thrust encouraging him to take Peter just a little deeper, he whimpers. The praises Peter offers between movements don’t help. “Elias,” he breathes, “you’re so good. You feel so good. Just a bit deeper for me, all right? Good boy. Pretty thing.” With each phrase, Elias’ cock jumps, and he’s desperate now, more than desperate. Peter’s scent, the musk of him, and his taste envelop him. When Peter comes, it’s hot, quick. Elias swallows, eager. When Peter pulls away, he almost speaks, but doesn’t, only sighs when Peter nestles himself behind Elias, letting one hand find its place between his legs, the other encompassing him. Holding him close, for once. Elias remembers a time when Peter would fuck him without meeting his eye, touching him as little as possible. 

“You were lovely,” Peter whispers, and Elias nearly purrs. Peter’s hand works away at his cock and he grinds forward in time with him. “Like that?” 

“Mmm.” Yes, he wants to tell Peter, yes, keep touching me, don’t stop, don’t go. But he can’t speak, and so he pulls Peter’s other hand to his mouth, kisses his palm, sucks on the tips of his fingers. 

“Would you like to come for me, pet?” 

“Yes,” Elias manages to sigh. “Fuck, yes.” It’s Peter’s teeth grazing over his skin as he strokes more quickly, more firmly, that pushes Elias over the edge. His vision darkens; his cock spasms, he cries out Peter’s name, or thinks he does, and crumples, spent, into Peter’s arms. He feels Peter ease his lips open and licks himself off the other man’s hand. 

Peter says nothing. He’s not sure how long they lay like that, entangled in sweat and bedsheets and one another. After a while, he feels Peter pulling back, shifting, and he turns. Peter smiles. He tilts Elias’ face up and bends to kiss his mouth, his eyelids, his forehead. Then he stands and dresses. Elias can only watch, troubled by the unpleasant feeling prickling in his gut as he watches Peter button his trousers, slip on his boots. He sits himself up. For a while, he just looks. 

Then he can’t stop himself from blurting, “Peter. Stay.” 

Peter sucks his teeth, makes a  _ tsk  _ sound that is at once condescending and pitying and makes Elias feel sick. “Elias,” he begins. “You know I can’t do that, love.” 

He takes a pack of Marlboro’s from his jacket pocket and lights one between his teeth before handing it to Elias. Not knowing what else to do, he smokes it. The rush of nicotine is small consolation as he watches Peter steeling himself against the cold night. 

“Flat’s yours if you want it.” Peter’s voice is kind, but it cuts. “Stay the night.” 

“Alone?” He kicks himself inwardly as soon as the word escapes his lips. 

“I’ll be seeing you, Elias.” 

At the very least, he tries to make sure Peter feels his eyes boring into his back as he walks away, leaving the suite chill and empty. 


End file.
